Page 44 of Mourner for Hire
“He just lost his mom. He’s allowed to be dramatic.”
A sad expression shifts over his face before he smiles. He thinks for a beat and then leans back.
“You know what? You’re right. Dominic is allowed to bedramatic.” He leans over the table. “But grief is never a valid reason to treat an innocent bystander with such disrespect.”
I tilt my chin up and swallow. I can’t read him. It feels like a trap, but the palm trees on his button-up and the perfect smile on his face are confusing my thoughts. He’s universally attractive, approachable in a boy-next-door way, and even I feel the warm flutters in my belly when his blue eyes twinkle. And yes, while he is adorable in his Hawaiian shirt with his perfect hair and stunning smile, I’m also convinced he’s the type of guy who uses big words in the wrong context.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Vada Daughtry. What’s yours?”
“Connor.”
“Connor what?”
He squints at me. “Do we need to be on a two-name basis?”
“If you want to be on a first-name basis, then yes.”
“Frankie O’Connor.”
I let out a humorless chuckle. “Oh, so this whole town just makes up names off their last name so they can have these weird aliases for the transient lady from Portland who is just trying to do her job in this little town that is forever etched in my life because I was born here but want nothing to do with because it actually harbors the worst memories for me.” I push my plate forward, and it inadvertently clanks on my glass of iced tea. I catch the eyes of my server. “Check, please.”
Connor… or Frankie… or whoever the hell this guy is, reaches across the table and touches my arm. “I didn’t know you were from here.”
“I’m not. I was just born here,” I say, my voice short.
“Still,” he reasons, his voice soft enough to truly catch my attention. “Look, Vada, I didn’t mean to make you feel discontent, but I do know you’re in a fascinating paradox with Dominic, and I think you being from here really puts things into perspective.”
Sigh. The desire to come off as an intellectual must be humiliating.
“What? Having my bloodline run from a town like this gives me a pass? Does that mean you’re going to be nice to me and not sit across the table from me like an intimidating Ken doll while I try to enjoy just one fucking meal?” I scratch my neck and exhale as the server brings me my check. I manage a smile for her, then turn to stone when I look at Ken—I mean, Frankie. I mean, Connor. I mean… “What the hell am I supposed to call you?”
He throws his head back and laughs. “Call me Connor. I’m actually Frankie Jr. so my dad is Frankie—never went by Frank even though he’s retired and fifty-nine?—”
“That would be fitting,” I reason.
“Exactly. But alas, I became Connor in kindergarten. They threw it on a name tag, and it stuck until now.”
I toss back my head and laugh. “Not even Little Frankie.”
“Not even,” he responds. “And let that be a lesson to you and anyone else who has kids: whatever you nickname your kid when they’re five will be their name. So much so that beautiful young women, who may have been minorly hurt in the past, causing them to be suspicious of everyone they’ve ever known, may ask for their full name and social security number.”
“I didn’t ask for that,” I say as the server returns with my check, and I sign the tip and slide it back into the leather case.
“You would, though.”
“Of course.” I smirk.
“I like that about you.”
“And I like—” The words get trapped on my tongue as Dominic approaches us. I inhale sharply through my teeth. “Fuck. I need to go,” I whisper, to which Connor makes a dramatic spin around. I reach for him, spilling the remnant of my iced tea across the table and shouting, “What are you doing?!”
He quirks his head back in my direction. “Sorry.”
“Good to see you, Vada,” Dominic says. His tone is drippingin syrupy sweetness, but the backbone of his words is laced with a threat. He has his arms outstretched. “Bring it in. I’m a hugger.”
“I’m a biter,” I spit back, dragging my gaze along the length of his arms.
